Old Letters

Writers tend to accumulate papers, notebooks, notes, and all sorts of articles, in a perfect mess that we alone understand.-each both, tired of seeing so many things piled up, feel nostalgia for the tidiness, and it gives us by shaking the dust and make cleaning, just as it did that day.-reviewing each of the folders, reviving mentally why they had kept every thing, and as it is often the case, had thrown less of course, again keeping almost everything, which demonstrated the futility of such an effort.-Despite having discovered this well-known fact, continuing in the task, when I found one old paper on wood, with two letters inside, and my memory began work trying to remember when had reached my power-little by little I was reminiscing and came to my mind the image of a man whoI no longer remember how much time had passed, approached, with old overcoat on the shoulders, and asked me in one of my stories incorporate the contents of the envelopes, thing that I had never done.-Me I felt indebted to one character, and as paying for it, I took two envelopes, and leaving everything aside, after reading them I began to write. ..Letter a child.-it seems impossible, son, that after so much or so little time together, need to confess something.-Por vos, I learned to reveal me waiting for your arrival, and when you did it, waved the wedge so that you durmieras in peace.-I suffered with you falls to take your first steps, and with you went back to school when you were, and then I spent whole nights waiting for your return home, when you took your youth to copy my old forgotten outputs.-When you sufrias, I suffered with you, your joys were the mine, although nothing you hear, and when you fell in love with, I reverdeci with you, and today, a new teaching me das, with the arrival of the first grandchild.-per everything learned, son, thanks….Letter to a father-prototype of mainland immigrants repatriated, despite to the intervening years had not lost the accent of your land.-He admired for my inside the wisdom of your lack of culture, kneaded to force live, and without saying anything tried to be like you.-hard for work, were as an oak tree that supported of foot the ravages of life- but the passage of time, as the straw that orada stoneyou was damaging, and, as the oak that seemed to be, and only falls to axe coups, vos also fall, and when it touched you play your bad hand with life and touched you lose, you left by squeezing my hands, without a Word.-want to know, wherever you are, I’m just as you were, as you, an oak which are hachando, and when you touch me playing and losing my last coat, I’ll find you, but meanwhile I want to tell you, that I miss my old man. .. .. .. As I could write a story with the contents of these two envelopes, if I was the author of these letters, and they envy that tale life.